


Last Impressions

by rants_skellington



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Bittersweet, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 19:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7477356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rants_skellington/pseuds/rants_skellington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deacon just shrugged. Looking into his sunglasses was like staring at someone through the bars of their cage, able only to glimpse them in fractions.<br/>“I don’t understand you,” MacCready said. “Sometimes it’s like you want to be friends, but then I look at you... I know that you hate me.”<br/>“Look, we’re on the same side,” Deacon said. His voice was level, bordering on being outright condescending. “We don’t need to get along.”<br/>“Don’t feed me that… Stuff,” MacCready said. “You don’t think we’re on the same side at all. You’re Railroad, and I’m extra baggage.”</p><p>Deacon and MacCready don't get along. The idea of working together doesn't make either of them particularly happy. But maybe there's more to them both - and maybe they have more in common than they realised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this was an experience. I haven't written any Fallout fic before, so getting my head around how I wanted to write the characters was difficult. But hey, nothing like learning on the fly. Hopefully this is a fun read and not a bad introduction to a pairing I like that no one else seems that into!!
> 
> The incredible art for this story is by [ccpyart](http://http://ccpyart.tumblr.com/)!!

  


 

 “All right, Deacon… I guess it’s your turn. Stay safe.”

“Appreciate that, MacCready. You do the same.”

 

“Still killing people for caps, MacCready?”

“I don’t know… You still pretending to be anyone but yourself?”

* * *

 The initial request had been so, so simple. _Deacon, you can go, can’t you?_ Why yes, yes he could, a nice little jaunt down to Diamond City would be a welcome break. Half a day’s walk there and back, wandering across familiar parts of the Commonwealth, areas well-populated and bristling with the oh so friendly and helpful Minutemen? Just to go and collect a bunch of junk so Tinker Tom could work on the terrifyingly huge contraption that was taking up half of Mercer Safehouse and making noises like a vertibird caught in a generator? It was almost like a vacation.

But then, after Deacon had already agreed to go, sworn into the unbreakable pact of promising to do a favour, Sole’s arm outstretched like the terrible hand of fate, ready to dole out the worst cards, and pointed across the room at the resident untrustworthy, greedy, money-grubbing, murderer and thief, and said;

“MacCready can go with you.”

Deacon looked over at MacCready, who was sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, cleaning his gun and minding his own business. MacCready, having heard his name – although more likely than not he’d been listening in the whole time if he was half as sharp as Deacon believed –– looked up at them. He didn’t move or say anything, just stared like was waiting for further commentary before making his final judgements.

“No offence,” Deacon said, “but I’m a big boy. I’m pretty sure I can handle walking to Diamond City by myself.”

And there it was, MacCready went from uncommenting to furious, placidity of his face gone like Deacon had thrown a stone into a still lake. Thrown a boulder maybe. He didn’t say anything, just stared at Deacon in bitter silence.

“No go,” Sole said. “Things are too delicate with the Institute right now; I’m not having anyone wandering around on their own.”

The order had been given, and Deacon knew when there was no point fighting against it. Part of him wondered if this was a deliberate move on Sole’s behalf, some kind of play to force him and MacCready into a painful bonding experience. Maybe they’d come out of it as best friends, but Deacon doubted that. The truth was, he didn’t like MacCready, and he didn’t _want_ to like MacCready. It was more than disliking anything particular about the man; Deacon didn’t have an ounce of respect for him, and he didn’t think he ever would.

He smiled at MacCready, who just looked over at Sole, giving them an incredulous look.

“You’re both snipers,” Sole said, as if it was some kind of sufficient explanation for the ridiculous team-up. “You can watch each other’s backs.”

In the end, Deacon had a responsibility to the Railroad. He wasn’t intentionally going to delay important work for the sake of picking a fight with someone who was, in the end, an ally. So Deacon made the adult decision. He sucked it up, and knew he was going to make it work. It wasn’t like MacCready was the worst person in the world. He could stomach travelling with him for a couple of days, even without the buffer of Sole or the others between them. He’d spent more time with people he liked less.

“Guess it’s just us, MacCready,” he said, with as casual a smile as he could muster. “You ready for an afternoon stroll?”

“Yeah,” MacCready said, so suspiciously he sounded like he wasn’t convinced that Deacon wasn’t about to lunge across the room and sock him in jaw. “Alright.”

* * *

 They left Mercer Safehouse – Tenpines Bluff to everyone else – at twelve o’clock, the sun already high in the sky and threatening to make the entire day airlessly hot. MacCready never felt prepared for hot days; the rare occasions when they rolled in they always took him by surprise, leaving him sweating under all the layers of clothes he shrouded himself in. He was about to say as much when Deacon, as though sensing he was about to speak, decided to cut any potential uncomfortable small talk off before it started like a hunter putting a wounded animal out of its misery.

“If we went straight to Diamond City it’d take us about six hours,” Deacon said. “But we’re going to have to go to Wattz Consumer Electronics if we want to find military-grade circuit boards and not arm-wrestle a protectron for them. That’ll add on maybe an hour. We’re looking at a potentially thirteen to fourteen hour round trip, but we can still make it back to the Safehouse before tomorrow.”

“You want to walk all day and half the night, no breaks?” MacCready said. “That’s insane.”

“This is important,” Deacon said.

“Yeah, I know, but why walk forty miles in a day when you can _not_ walk forty miles in a day. The transporter isn’t going to fall apart in our sleep.”

“I just think it’s best to get the job done fast.”

“Think what you like, I’m not marching for fourteen hours without taking a break.”

Deacon didn’t add anything then, just smiled with a placidity that MacCready found infuriating. But he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of getting angry. He didn’t really know if Deacon was deliberately trying to annoy him, but telling jokes was what he did, right? Telling jokes and lying. Sole was MacCready’s friend, his good friend, but he definitely resented them for a moment, sending him out on this bullshit fetch quest with someone who had irrationally hated him from near on the moment they’d met.

MacCready knew he wasn’t the easiest person to like, he could accept that. He didn’t _expect_ people to like him. But Deacon’s anger towards him had come out of goddamn nowhere and taken him by complete, slightly outraged, surprise. Deacon just didn’t like mercs, it would appear, or he didn’t like people who prioritised money, or he just didn’t like the cut of MacCready’s jib. It didn’t matter what the reasoning was, because the result was still the same, and the situation felt unfair in a way that made him want to throw a truly childish tantrum. Although, he hadn’t really thrown many tantrums as a child. There had been no one able to appreciate them. 

It was a long way to walk without conversation, Dogmeat jumping around their ankles, or tinny tunes playing on a Pip-boy. They both knew how to travel fast and in silence, but working in tandem it became exhausting. Alone, MacCready would have been able to watch his own back, but now he had to watch Deacon’s too, and didn’t even know if the favour would be returned. They weren’t even walking dangerous roads and he couldn’t relax the grip on his gun, feeling like a frightened rabbit with his eyes and ears wide open. Deacon was, as always, unreadable. The artificial man.

It was four and a half hours to Wattz Consumer Electronics. Four and a half hours in heat that made MacCready feel dirty, sweat and grime alike clinging to him, the weight of his clothes an additional burden. Deacon breezed on, cool in no armour and just a thin T-shirt to protect him from everything in the Wasteland. MacCready didn’t feel safe if he didn’t have half a dozen layers of clothing to back him up. He didn’t know if Deacon was cocky, able to dodge bullets, or just stupid. Maybe this was part of his disguise, look like he wasn’t a risk so nobody knew he was dangerous. MacCready wasn’t going to ask.

The sky, which had grown darker and heavier with clouds the longer they walked, had turned from grey to an increasingly sickly green. They had felt the oncoming storm at the same time, the crackle of electricity in the air, the distant rumble of thunder. Not braced for the weather, they were falling over themselves in their desperation to get out of the oncoming radiation storm. It was kind of laughable, the two of them racing to Wattz as fast as they could without slipping on the wet ground and knocking themselves out.

Bolting inside, MacCready let the door slam shut behind him. They stood in silence for a little while, catching their breath and watching the door, like the radiation storm was an encroaching army about to batter down the door to hunt them down. But the door held fast, and forced to question if there were more pressing dangers inside the store, MacCready looked down into the giant hole in the middle of the floor. It was an easy ramble down the ramp formed by the fallen floor, but what was down there amongst the shipping containers and the chunk of concrete, was anyone’s guess.

“Is this place safe?” MacCready asked.

“I think so,” Deacon said. “Nothing here but us robots last time I checked.”

“You’re a robot? That sure explains a lot.”

“Bleep bloop. You’ve seen through my disguise at last.”

MacCready laughed, giving Deacon the most genuine smile, something he’d never actually seen MacCready do. At least not at _him_. He was glad that he and MacCready had the ability to get on, not spend all the time bickering and fighting. Even if, in that moment as at all times, he fucking hated MacCready. Far, far more than was reasonable, but maybe Deacon didn’t care about being reasonable. Maybe he just _wanted_ to be bitter, maybe he just wanted to have something to hold against someone. MacCready probably thought they were becoming friends. An unpleasant part of Deacon sneered at the idea.

MacCready was actually wondering how long the robots clanking around were going to stay friendly. You never knew, with robots. He didn’t understand how they worked and he did not like them, weird remnants of an age when people could get machines to just do all the work for them. A broken Mr Handy floated meekly between shelves no one had restocked for a thousand years, nothing left on them but junk and husks of monitors.

They both edged carefully around the cavern in the floor, neither of them willing to take the first tumble down into the darkness below. It was dim enough in the store already, only a few lights left glowing. The flame of the Mr Handy’s jet was the brightest light in the store, sending long looming shadows from the shelves. A few protectrons sat in the store, already stripped for parts and the artificial life in them dimmed a long time ago.

When they came to a locked door, Deacon couldn’t resist the urge to unlock it, MacCready watching with some appreciation for the art. They broke into what had once been a place to relax, if MacCready was any judge, red benches and tables lined up against the wall. An ancient box of Fancy Lad Snack Cakes sat on a table, and MacCready grabbed it immediately, cramming it into his pack. An old first aid box held stimpacks, purified water they both judged still good. The abundance of purified water in the Commonwealth was something MacCready would probably never adjust to, and he held up the water bottle to the light, seeing how the liquid was perfectly clear.

“You come from the Capital Wasteland, right?” Deacon said.

The questioned disarmed MacCready. He stood, holding the bottle of water, unsure of why he was being asked anything so personal. He had no idea Deacon cared, and the sudden idea that he wanted to know anything made MacCready cautious.

“Yeah,” MacCready said. “You ever been?”

“Once,” Deacon said. “A long time ago.”

“It got worse,” MacCready said. “It was already a nightmare, and the Brotherhood fu-ruined what was left.”

He slung the water bottle in his pack and said no more about it. Deacon bit back on saying something, a nasty little jibe about leaving things _behind,_ which was a little unnecessarily cruel. It would be so easy, to sink to MacCready’s level and act without thinking, but he had to hold himself to some higher standards than that. For the sake of the Railroad, and this crazy plan the Sole Survivor had pulled together with Desdemona, he would act like a goddamned grown-up. It wasn’t hard. He was used to playing the clown, the defence of being no threat at all, and this was no different.

Deacon left the room and bolted up the stairs, spotting the solid metal security door up on the next floor. MacCready took his time following, still sweeping around the room to make sure nothing was going to sneak up on them. Deacon snapped a bobby pin in the door lock, hissed a joke beneath his breath that MacCready couldn’t hear, but got the damn thing open eventually. MacCready stayed on guard outside as he pulled the room apart looking for anything of value.

“Find anything?” MacCready said.

“We’re rich!” Deacon said.

MacCready turned, a brief hope that Deacon had found someone’s hidden stash of caps, before Deacon started cramming fistfuls of worthless old world money down the front of his coat. There must have been thousands and thousands of notes, all of them accounting up to so few caps and so much dust. They’d get more worth out of it giving the lot of it to Preston to sew into a new flag for the Minutemen.

“Anything _useful_?” MacCready said, glaring.

“This not grabbing your interest?” Deacon said, letting notes drift out from between his fingers like so much garbage. “I thought it’d be right up your alley.”

His voice was light and breezy, disguising the barbs of the remark, but MacCready did not rise to it. If there was anything he could do, it was not sink to Deacon’s level.

“We got a bomb,” Deacon said eventually, waving to the mini-nuke sitting like an egg in a nest of money. “But no circuit board.”

They took the nuke, too, because it was better off with them than it was falling into the hands of some Raider. Still unwilling to search in the catacombs under the building, they explored the ground level further. On the other side of the store, MacCready clambered through a small window in the wall and into the locked room beyond. Knocking over a lamp in his ungraceful descent, he spotted the huge piece of circuitry they’d been looking for crammed into the corner. He held it aloft in triumph, Deacon nodding to him appreciatively.

“Let’s get out of here before the roof caves in,” Deacon said. The confidence in his voice died when he reached the front door and realised the storm outside was still raging, wind howling through the tiny crack he made when he risked pushing it open.

“How long are we stuck here?” MacCready said.

“I’d say until it stopped being a radioactive wasteland out there,” Deacon said, “but that could take a while.”

MacCready sat on a crate a little way from the door, staring at two blank monitors that were on the precipice of the chasm in the floor. He vaguely wondered what would happen if he pushed them off the edge and into the basement below. Nothing, probably; no consequences for acts of pointless vandalism. Deacon sat on the ground with his back to the door, blocking out the intruding forces of the storm. He seemed completely at ease, as though this was just another day in Sanctuary, waiting for the call to duty.

“You’re getting that break you wanted,” Deacon said.

“If you think I’m going to march all night, you’re wrong.”

Deacon just shrugged. Looking into his sunglasses was like staring at someone through the bars of their cage, able only to glimpse them in fractions.

“I don’t understand you,” MacCready said. “Sometimes it’s like you want to be friends, but then I look at you... I know that you hate me.”

“Look, we’re on the same side,” Deacon said. His voice was level, bordering on being outright condescending. “We don’t need to get along.”

“Don’t feed me that… Stuff,” MacCready said. “You don’t think we’re on the same side at all. You’re _Railroad_ , and I’m _extra baggage_.”

Deacon just leant his head to the side and looked at MacCready in a way that suggested he was more curious than angry. MacCready had never felt like Deacon was someone to be scared of, couldn’t take him seriously enough to be afraid of him. But sitting slouched, elbows on his knees, MacCready’s entire body was tense, and he was glad that there were any kind of restrictions keeping them from being at each other’s throats. The uncertainty about Deacon made him more of a threat than MacCready had given credit.

“We’re both helping the Railroad,” he said. “Even if you’re only doing it for the money.”

“I’m not getting paid,” MacCready snapped. “I’m doing this because Sole is my friend. I gave _back_ the money they paid me.”

“You’re a saint.”

“I don’t know what I _did_ to make you hate me.”

“To me? Nothing at all.”

They waited for a long while, a long, long while, saying nothing, until the sound of the storm outside died down and the only noise left was the whirring of the robots still following their preprogramed routines, able to outlast the people who they had been built to serve. And then they left, to walk the final stretch to Diamond City.

* * *

 Diamond City was the same, a tangled mess of houses and walkways, full of people that stared you in the eye and dared you to step out of line. It had always been like, as far as MacCready could remember. Hancock talked about it being better once, but time was a fickle thing with Hancock, and it was hard to guess if he meant before McDonough had taken power, or a time before MacCready had crawled out of Little Lamplight. Either way, those had been years before he had made it as far as the Commonwealth. Seeing Diamond City for the first time had been a moment of pure awe; he could hardly believe that he was used to it now. Everything stopped being new, in the end.

MacCready went to Myrna to trade for the biometric scanner and assorted junk they needed. Deacon hung back by Takahashi’s stall, making bright conversation with the robot seemingly for the amusement of nobody but himself.

“Talking to a robot like he’s a person,” Myrna said. “That one’s a synth if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Him?” MacCready said, jamming a thumb at Deacon. “Oh yeah, definitely.”

“Talking about me behind my back, RJ?” Deacon said, nothing getting past him.

“Only bad things, I promise.”

Myrna didn’t look impressed by this. Deacon leaned over the counter to exaggeratedly whisper with Takahashi, making obvious hand gestures at MacCready. MacCready just stood with hands on his hips, shaking his head in mocking disappointment. He didn’t really know why he was going along with the game. It was easier, to just carry through with the joke. He didn’t know if it would make him feel better or worse to just be as spiteful to Deacon as possible, but maybe he just didn’t have it in him to be that kind of angry anymore. He knew he’d been an absolute horror once, loudmouth child bawling epithets over the walls to his fortress, but he liked to think he was _tolerable_ now that he’d lost the walls and had the undeserved cocky rage beaten out of him.

MacCready bartered for the biometric scanner, handing over a fistful of caps and some plasma cartridges he was never going to use, and taking the hunk of metal and screws from Myrna. Looking at it, he wouldn’t have known if it was the scanner or some kind of alien bomb. He held it up, showing it to Deacon, who just gave him a nod and thumbs up from the noodle stand. Their mission accomplished, MacCready knew that Deacon’s next proposal was going to be that they started the long walk back to Mercer Alley. _Hey MacCready, let’s spend all night walking through the dark and risk being ripped apart by raiders and ghouls rather than forcing me to spend a minute more than necessary in your presence. Now back to my one-man show, I’m going to tell a load of jokes and you’re going to laugh anyway, because you can’t quite bring yourself to hate me and you know it. Want to hear something mysterious and slightly threatening?_

The market was closing for the night, Myrna handing over Diamond City Surplus to Percy, giving MacCready another dirty look before she went in. People were trailing home or heading over to the Dugout Inn, filing out and leaving the marketplace quiet but for the sounds of the lights continually buzzing in the background. Said lights were leaving the sky above Diamond City bleached, in comparison to the inky blackness that hung over the rest of the Commonwealth. MacCready took a seat next to Deacon, watching, as they slowly became some of the only people in the market.

“Look,” MacCready said, trying to keep himself as calm and paced as possible. “I know you want to get back. But walking back in the night doesn’t make any sense.”

“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?” Takahashi said.

“He agrees with me,” MacCready said.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Deacon said.

“Takahashi knows Diamond City better than anyone. He thinks we should stay at the Dugout.”

“ _Robert_ ,” Deacon said, hand over his heart and mouth an O of surprise. “Are you just trying to get me into bed with you?”

MacCready, not possessing superhuman blood control, failed to stop himself from flaring up red. Deacon using his first name was a personal touch that only threw MacCready off further. He was so used to being on a last name basis with everyone that being addressed as Robert was downright uncomfortable, as though Deacon was trying to talk to a slightly different version of him. One Deacon was a lot closer with.

“That’s some wishful thinking,” MacCready said.

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Deacon said. “More like fear.”

Despite the conversation, they still went to the Dugout.

* * *

“No… She didn’t make it, Vadim.”

Vadim’s face fell for a moment; eyes filled with painful sympathy that made MacCready feel ashamed rather than comforted. He could feel Deacon watching him and he felt, as he always did with Deacon, like he was being judged unfit for some higher purpose.

“I’m sorry, mouth tends to be faster than brain,” Vadim said. His voice was warm but his eyes were still doe-soft and filled with pity. “Tell you what; I give you a drink on the house… For old times.”

Was MacCready’s grief still so obvious that Vadim should have been able to tell on sight that Lucy was gone? Was it so clearly painted on his face, like another layer of dirt, that people could just _see_ it when MacCready walked into a room? So much for keeping secrets.

“Thanks,” MacCready said. “You were always a real stand-up kind of guy, Vadim.”

He took the drink, a glass of piss that burned his throat on the way down, while Deacon evaded Vadim’s conversation long enough to get a room. Only one room. Watch each other’s backs. The likelihood that they were going to get attacked in the middle of the inn in Diamond City was very unlikely but learned pack safety was more important than privacy. And it saved them ten caps.

Deacon didn’t say a word to him, just joined him at the bar as they both drank something that was almost definitely not fit for human consumption. Probably not fit for synth consumption either. If Deacon was a synth, would this be more damaging or less? Synths didn’t need to eat, but they could, couldn’t they? It would be a fairly easy give away if every synth short-circuited and died as soon as liquid passed their lips.

“I guess you know about Lucy now,” MacCready said, because he felt compelled to.

“I already knew about your wife,” Deacon said.

“How?”

“I know things. It’s my job.”

“I didn’t think I was that important to the Railroad.”

“You’re not. But you’re important to one of our best agents, which makes you a concern.”

“A _concern_.” MacCready took another drink of the horsepiss alcohol. “Can that be my Railroad codename?”

“What?”

“You all have codenames, right? Charmer, Glory, Bullseye, Deacon, Asshole, whatever. Mine can be Concern.”

“You aren’t Railroad,” Deacon said, a little too fast.

“But we’re on the same side,” MacCready said, almost with genuine fear the alliance had been suddenly revoked. He should have known better. Deacon’s tolerance was endless, as long as they were working for the same people.

“Doesn’t make you Railroad.”

“No.” Pause, less for effect and more out of a failure to know what to say next. “What else do you know about me?”

“You’re from the Capital Wasteland. You have a smallholding there. You have a son. You were in the Gunners, until your conscience got heavier than the caps in your pocket. You’re scared of feral ghouls, and you like caps and comic books. You want me to carry on?”

It took MacCready a split second to realise that last one was a question and not just a statement.

“You don’t know that already?” MacCready said.

“Unfortunately my friend, I cannot see the future.”

“I thought we weren’t friends.”

“I thought you didn’t swear.”

“I’m drinking, it just slipped out.”

“There’s always an excuse.”

* * *

They were in bed a couple of hours later, lying on the same mattress in a windowless room that constantly thrummed with energy and that made you lose sense of time. Deacon was trying to feel angry with MacCready for delaying them, and failing to do so, because he reluctantly had to admit it was ridiculously dangerous to walk all night. RJ was presumably asleep behind him, curled up into a tight ball and making noises that were not quite speech. Deacon felt hyper-aware of his presence, his every twitch and shudder, the way his breath occasionally hitched as though he was surprised. It wasn’t obnoxious, but in a room too dark and bare to offer any other distractions, MacCready periodically brushing up against him was the only thing capturing his attention.

Tomorrow they would be back at Mercer Safehouse, and they would never really need to talk to each other again. Maybe this trip had been a once in a lifetime opportunity to learn to love thy brother, but Deacon knew the only thing that had come out of it was the fact that MacCready now had a better idea of how Deacon felt about him. There was no need to prolong the relationship, and their alliance felt incredibly temporary to Deacon. Either the Railroad would succeed and then everything would change –– and there was every chance MacCready could left behind – or they would fail, and then Deacon would be dead. Maybe MacCready too, but he doubted the kid would be willing to die for anything.

He had been thinking about MacCready’s kid all day. He knew the boy was called Duncan, and he was still in the Capital Wasteland, but that was the sum total of his knowledge. He had an image in his head of a boy about six or seven with MacCready’s bright blue eyes and twisted W mouth, glaring up at him and demanding his money or his life. That seemed very unlikely; the boy was probably no more than a year or two old, maybe three, and had been living without his father’s influence for some time. Who was looking after him? Family? Was there a small army of MacCreadies down south, or had MacCready abandoned his son to the kindness of strangers? It was a week’s walk to the Capital. Had he really been so desperate to escape his son that he had walked for over four hundred miles to get away from his own grief? Grief made people do very strange things. It had made Deacon abandon his own name and face, and he could too easily believe it would make a man neglect what he claimed to care about.

Deacon wanted to know the answers to these questions more than he should have, more than he was comfortable with. The worst part was not being able to seek the answers out without people wanting to know why he needed to know, and then his kitty carcass would be cooked. Turns out Deacon is a weirdo obsessed with someone he doesn’t like. Unprofessional. Lose his job. End up running a shitty bar in the Glowing Sea serving Children of Atom cultists who didn’t ask too many questions.

He fell asleep for a few hours, dreamed about a bar serving glowing water to people who wouldn’t look him in the eye, but woke up when MacCready rolled over and shoved his head into the crook of his neck. He was momentarily stunned, before realising they had somehow reached a point of becoming so entangled that he could not extract himself without waking MacCready up immediately. He ripped his arm out from under MacCready with enough force to send him spinning off the bed and onto the floor.

“What the hell?!” MacCready shouted from his new position on the ground. He woke up as fast as he fell asleep, it seemed.

“You fell,” Deacon said.

“Did you push me out of bed?”

“No,” he half-lied.

He couldn’t see MacCready in the darkness, just heard him sigh on the ground, then felt the creak of the mattress shift beneath him as he clambered back up onto the bed and ungracefully fell on top of Deacon. They both shifted around, trying to make enough room on the small space for them both. Whatever way they tried, there was no way to stop them from being close enough to call it an embrace.

“We should have gotten two rooms,” MacCready said.

“And shelled out a whole ‘nother ten caps?” Deacon said, aghast.

“Yeah, alright, I’m thrifty and I want to earn money. I get it. You have made your point.”

“I really haven’t been trying to do anything. But if you want to learn a lesson from me, that’s just fine.”

“The only thing I’ve learnt from you is that you’re the most judgemental person I know.”

MacCready was apparently not as willing to play nice at three o’clock in the morning as he was when he _hadn’t_ just slammed straight into a concrete floor in the middle of the night. His voice was naked, the usual careful tone he took on when he was trying, trying so hard, to be reasonable with Deacon, completely absent.

“I wouldn’t say the _most_ ,” Deacon said.

“I would. I feel like all you ever want to do is find more reasons to hate me.”

“I’m not finding _more_ reasons.”

“Oh, clever. That’s great, Deacon.”

The mattress shifted again as MacCready sat up. He turned on his flashlight, the light eye-wateringly bright after so much darkness. MacCready was sitting on the edge of the bed, back to Deacon. He was painfully thin under all the clothes, something that had escaped Deacon in the past, and he looked incredibly fragile when you stripped away all of the defences he wore.

“I needed the money,” MacCready said. “After Lucy died, I was the only one there for Duncan.”

“You’re not there for him,” Deacon said. “You’re five hundred miles away.”

MacCready turned around to look at him, Deacon pushing himself to sit upright against the wall. Underlit by the flashlight in his hands, MacCready’s eyes shone wet. Deacon had expected him to fly off the handle, had maybe been baiting him more than he liked to admit, but he remained calm.

“I know,” he said. He swallowed. “I had to make money. There’s nothing left in the Capital Wasteland. I had to find a cure.”

“Wait, wait,” Deacon said. “A _cure?_ A cure for what?”

“Duncan got sick. I don’t… I don’t know what it was. Sole helped me find a cure. He would have died if I hadn’t been here to find it.”

Pause. “I guess it’s a good thing you did come, then.”

“Yeah.”

Deacon always had a very definite sense of what was right and wrong. His sensibilities had shifted and changed over the years, but at the time he held them, his beliefs always felt absolute. But he didn’t know how to judge MacCready, because this had stopped being a matter of morals some time ago. This was just a personal grudge.

The image in his head of Duncan had warped from the stubborn, angry looking child, to a squalling, red-faced baby that could not have been more than a couple of months old. It was undoubtedly just as false but he couldn’t shake it, the picture of the crying child. And he still didn’t know if he _trusted_ MacCready, the suspicious part of him still convinced that the man was not above lying to him just to earn his trust. MacCready’s head was turned down, looking at his hands, fingers intertwined. He did not look like a master conspirator. He just looked fucking sad.

“Do you trust me?” Deacon said.

“What?” MacCready said. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing, just satisfy my curiosity.”

“I… I don’t know. You hate _me_ , but you still want to do the right thing, whatever _that_ is. You’re… a good person.”

“Ah, shucks. You’ll make me blush.”

“You’re a good person, but you’re a jerk.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

The lighter flashed against MacCready’s hands as he lit a cigarette.

“I used to think it would be better if I’d died,” he said. “Lucy was smarter than me; she would have been able to handle Duncan better than I have. Or maybe if we’d all died there together.”

The statement took the air out of Deacon’s lungs.

“Hell, Robert, I was really determined to hate you,” Deacon said. “And then you have to go and say a thing like that.”

“Why hate me? I never did anything to you.”

Lie possibility #1: make a joke, deflect the entire situation. Just really wanted your hat. Elaborate plan to use reverse psychology on you to make you fall in love with me. I’m a synth and this is part of the Institute’s plan.

Lie possibility #2: serious, but untrue, hide actual feelings behind thin justifications. Didn’t know if I could trust you. Thought you were just in this for the money. Didn’t know if you were going to shiv me in my sleep or not.

Lie possibility #3: work. I’m too busy with the Railroad to have friends. It’s too dangerous to let outsiders into the Railroad. I didn’t want to risk everyone.

“I was jealous,” he said, because honesty was hard and it hurt but in the long run – and there was going to _be_ a long run – it was better for them both. He did not have to teach MacCready about the value of knowing who to trust. They both knew, just as well as each other. They were the same.

“You were _what?_ ”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning. We have a six hour walk back. You want to get into this right now?”

MacCready’s flashlight flicked off, and he sat back in bed beside Deacon, his cigarette glowing in the darkness. He let the subject go, which Deacon appreciated. It had been enough of a conversation for one night.

“I’m glad we worked this out,” MacCready said.

Deacon didn’t add anything to that, just rolled over to try and sleep, failed in the absolute – as usual – to ignore the growing feeling of guilt inside his chest.

* * *

They did not leave first thing in the morning. Deacon woke up again four hours later, and saw MacCready asleep on the bed next to him, curled up in a tight ball with his face hidden under himself, shielded from the world. Deacon was curled up against him, they’d instinctively rolled together in their sleep in an attempt to bully out the cold. For a moment, Deacon stayed still, watching his fitful sleep. He twitched so often, hands tense and leg kicking out, like a dog chasing rabbits. Deacon did not have to ask what chased MacCready in his sleep.

He carefully stepped out of bed, not wanting to interrupt sleep. Out of bed, the temperature was a lot lower, the sun’s heat not able to penetrate through the thick stone walls of the Dugout. He looked back at MacCready, who looked painfully small outside of his big coat, and thought about how it had been so much warmer in bed together.

Snipers were vulnerable, when they were alone. They needed people to watch their backs.

* * *

“I’m actually from the Commonwealth,” Deacon said, because he was starting to get the hang of not lying his ass off to MacCready. He had been asked how well he knew the Commonwealth, and he was going to be honest about it.

“You don’t sound like it,” MacCready said. He was locked onto the scope of his rifle, staring down to the road below, where a yao guai lumbered aimlessly around. They were safely out of the way, up on the roof of a house well out of the bear’s path.

“Changed my voice almost as many times as my face,” Deacon said. “I don’t remember what I sounded like in the first place.”

He didn’t, really. No one sounded like they did in their head, and the voices in his memories changed as he grew further away from them. They only ever sounded like the role he was trying to play, the words and deeds of a different man entirely. Not that he ever tried to deny his own responsibility; he knew very well what he had done. He would live with it.

“It’s strange to think about that,” MacCready said. “That this isn’t any more real than anything else you pretend to be.”

In the time they had been walking back, MacCready had not once pushed for Deacon to admit what he had meant when he had said he was jealous. Deacon knew he wanted to know, he’d seen the long, expectant looks MacCready had been giving him for the last three something hours. But he’d never actually come right out and demanded an answer. There was a tact MacCready possessed that surprised Deacon; doing surveillance on people so often didn’t turn up the important details like that.

He knew he’d have to open up eventually, he’d already taken steps to start that process. It just wasn’t going to happen any time soon.

“Maybe the face isn’t,” Deacon said. “But maybe other things are.”

Deacon took the cigarette away from his lips, and blew a smoke ring into the air. MacCready pulled back, looking away from the rifle and to the dissipating smoke. Less than two hours away from Mercer Safehouse, being held up by the shambling beast on the road below, MacCready had been in no hurry to actually make the killing shot. He had been taking his sweet time, lining up shots he never took, losing them when Deacon made him laugh too much to hold the gun straight, which was frequent. Or when he cared more about the conversation than he did about getting anywhere at all, which was constant.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“I’m a very complex man.”

“Just explain.”

“Being straightforward is no fun.”

“Don’t be an… Idiot.”

“So why _don’t_ you swear?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Is it that transparent?”

MacCready rolled his eyes, sighing hard enough that the yao guai raised its head in the air and sniffed, catching the sound of them like it was a scent on the wind.

“I made a promise to Lucy that our son wouldn’t swear as much as I did as a kid. I told her I could stop swearing.” MacCready settled back down with the gun, raised it to his eye. He actually took a shot this time, the crack of the gun ringing out through the quiet morning air. The bullet hit the yao guai square in the eye, the bear stumbling and wobbling on its feet. Deacon could appreciate a shot like that, he thought, watching the bear collapse onto the ground.

“Duncan isn’t here,” Deacon ventured. “Neither is your wife.” Using her name felt too personal, somehow. He didn’t feel like he was that close yet.

“I made a promise. Is that a problem?”

“No. I like your priorities.”

He handed MacCready the cigarette, and levered himself off the ground, stretching. MacCready stood up, slinging the gun onto his back. He made an attempt to blow a smoke ring, but the smoke took no form and just drifted away.

“I loved her, you know?” He said. “She deserved better than me. Someone who could have done more.”

“No. You’re alright. She definitely didn’t deserve to _die_ ,” Deacon said, “but it wasn’t your fault.”

It struck him that, watching the way MacCready looked away and pretended the words didn’t affect him, this might have been one of the only times MacCready had ever been told that. In a selfish way he was glad it could be him that said it, because he knew how much he longed –  although did not necessarily deserve – to be told the same thing.

* * *

“We grew up in a cave,” MacCready said. “Me, Lucy, two dozen other ten year olds, and nothing to eat but cave fungus. It was this tiny town called Little Lamplight.”

“That explains so much about you,” Deacon said.

“You didn’t know that already?”

“I didn’t judge your family history valuable information. Clearly I was wrong, because this is a revelation. A _goldmine_ for tragedy.”

“Looking back, it’s awful,” MacCready said. “But back then I felt like king of the Wasteland. Lucy was the camp doctor; I was the mayor. I ran that place for six years, ten until sixteen. Then they kicked us out. No mungos allowed.”

“ _Mungos?_ ”

“Adults. Everyone over sixteen has a ban, once you aged up, you’re out. Adults are too dangerous.”

MacCready actually liked talking. He liked talking, he liked having people who listened to him, and he liked laughing. He was grateful for the fact Deacon apparently now gave enough of a shit to listen, and was even more grateful to be able to laugh at jokes that weren’t barely-concealed barbs at him. Even if he hadn’t figured out Deacon so well, he didn’t feel so tense all the time, somewhat more secure now that he had been forgiven, the redemption as inexplicable as the hatred itself.

“How did kids _get_ there? Or did you just grow out of the walls, like fungus?”

“People took kids there, kids who had lost their parents one way or another. Safer than leaving them wandering around,” MacCready said. “Some of the teenagers, the older kids, they had kids of their own while they were still living there. And you got people who aged out, didn’t know how to look after their own kids, and left their babies to get raised the same way they did. Cycle continues.”

The tall buildings around them made them both nervous. They’d been playing a running game, pointing out the best sniper spots, but places like this, there was no end to them. They could have a bristling fortress of snipers standing guard over the road to Mercer Safehouse, ready to tear apart anyone who drew too near. But there was nothing more suspicious than too much of a defence.

“I’m never letting that happen to Duncan,” MacCready said.

“Good idea,” Deacon said. “Cave fungus doesn’t sound all that appetising.”

He threw an arm around MacCready’s shoulders, gave the awkward half-hug of a man who was not as comfortable with physical intimacy as he wanted to be. MacCready gave him a small, sad smile that made Deacon wonder how he’d envisioned him as being a cruel person in the first place. Jealousy was blinding.

“You ever have any kids?” MacCready said, maybe out of the blue, maybe an educated guess. The way he held Deacon’s gaze for a long time would suggest the latter, the first plea for answers he’d made all day. Deacon didn’t take his arm from around his shoulders, but did not answer his plea either.

“I consider every synth I’ve ever saved a child of mine,” Deacon said, with a tone so syrupy sweet MacCready had to wrinkle his nose in disgust. “Too much?”

“You could have just said no.”

“Lying is so much easier.”

He got a sharp look for that, a silent scolding. He knew that he was expected to be better than that now; he’d made the mistake of opening up a crack, and he was expected to _stay_ open. MacCready was sharp-edged and razor toothed, a spiny little thing who was covered in defensive armour; but that armour was egg-shell brittle, and it didn’t take much to push right through it and find how vulnerable he was inside, and once you had broken inside, it was gone. Deacon was more like a suit of power armour. You either had to put up a long fight to crack it, or you had to find that one weak point to take him down. Either way, one crack, one broken plate was not going to get you all the way inside. MacCready had forced his fingers into a crack, though, and he was going to pry it apart if he was allowed.

“No,” Deacon said. “We tried, we wanted them, but it never happened.”

“Who’s we?”

“Me. And Barbara.”

Deacon was allowing him.

* * *

They were back in Mercer Safehouse in the mid-afternoon, and no one seemed particularly angry that they hadn’t arrived earlier. Tinker Tom was delighted that they’d returned at all, taking to the teleporter like a man possessed, others scurrying around trying to carry through his orders as quickly as he could give them. The journey over, mission complete, there was really no need for MacCready and Deacon to be around each other. They awkwardly stood around after dropping off the things for Tom before Deacon got roped into hammering together bolts and wires with the others, and MacCready took the opportunity to sit back and tear into the box of Fancy Lad snack cakes they’d found yesterday.

Tenpines was a tiny settlement a fair distance from any others, which was presumably what made it a good hideout for the Railroad, but meant there wasn’t an angle at which MacCready couldn’t see everyone else. He was sat on a bench outside one of the tiny prefab buildings Sole had erected, and every time he managed to catch Deacon’s eye, Deacon insisted on either winking at him or raising an eyebrow with a rakish grin. He couldn’t have made a call about which was most embarrassing, some part of him worried about _what the others would think_ , as though gossip was the most pressing thing he had to be worrying about. He glared at Deacon, who grinned back at him, laughter lines on his face visible even with the sunglasses. Were those real, MacCready wondered, or part of Deacon’s latest disguise?

“Looks like that little roadtrip really bonded you two, hm?”

Nick Valentine’s voice was a pleasant change from the constant clattering of hammers and the crackling of Sole’s radio. He took a seat alongside MacCready on the bench, moving with the slow pace of a man who believed his age afforded him the right to take his time.

“This is part of his new plan to drive me crazy,” MacCready said, offering Nick the box of cakes, which he’d been tearing through at an alarming rate. “He’s trying to embarrass me to death.”

“Sole wasn’t convinced you two weren’t going to tear each other’s throats out,” Nick said.

“He’s alright,” MacCready said, shrugging. Nick didn’t take a cake, so he ate it himself. “Why send us off together if we hate each other? Trying to play matchmaker?”

“Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

MacCready dropped the empty box on the ground, but then felt bad about it, so he picked it up and threw it into the scrap pile. Someone would probably use it to fix a toaster or something; there was no guessing what was going to be useful.

“What do you think’s going to happen when we get to the Institute?” MacCready said.

“You hopin’ to see it yourself?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. When else am I going to get an opportunity like that? It’d be like seeing the future.”

“I don’t think the Institute is going to be anybody’s future for much longer,” Nick said, shading his eyes as a spark lit up the teleporter for a brief moment and a whoop went up from the onlookers.

* * *

When the flash was gone, the teleporter was empty, and the Sole Survivor had left them behind. For a long time, no one said anything, waiting on baited breath to see if something was about to go horribly, obviously wrong, if coursers were going to come streaming out of the teleporter and into Mercer Safehouse. If the wrath of the Institute, like the anger of an unseen god, was going to slam down on them for their hubris in attempting to walk where they were forbidden.

But nothing happened, the crackle of energy in the air died away, and they were left with an empty teleportation pad and Tinker Tom’s cheers of joy at his science experiment succeeding. No one else seemed as ready to throw a party over it, even Desdemona keeping herself professionally restrained. Deacon just nodded, as though in agreement, or approving of a purchase.

“Either it worked, or something went really, _really_ wrong,” he said. “I don’t know which is worse.”

“It _definitely_ worked,” Tinker Tom said defiantly. “Do not question my math.”

That did not answer Deacon’s question, but he held up his hands in surrender, smiling good-naturedly. He raised his eyebrows at MacCready; _can you believe this guy?_ MacCready didn’t know what to do, just shrugged in response. _He’s your co-worker_. _You tell me_.

“When do you think they’ll be back?” Piper said, fingers curled under her chin and head tilted upwards, as if she looked into the cloud-frosted sky hard enough she might be able to divine their location.

“Or _if_ they’ll be back,” MacCready said, always ready to be the pessimist in the crowd.

“They will be,” Cait said, with unshakable certainty.

He didn’t feel like arguing with her on it. They’d all worked to make this ridiculous, wild shot in the dark have a chance of coming true, and now it was out of their hands. Maybe it was just better to believe everything was going to work out fine. In the week after he’d walked across the Commonwealth to bring back the necessary chunks of scrap metal, they’d all been working on it nearly non-stop. Now, he didn’t really know what he was supposed to be doing. He could go back to work, but he didn’t know how he was supposed to return to just being a jobbing mercenary, waiting for the call to return to _this_. Maybe the Minutemen would keep him busy around Sanctuary or something like that. He knew how to make crops grow and hammer nails into wood, and could pick up the rest. Maybe they needed another caravan guard on one of the trade lines that had been set up.

Deacon was busy talking to Desdemona, and MacCready idled by picking at a loose thread in the sleeve of one of his jackets and waiting. The others were talking, and he watched by the side-lines, Piper, Cait and Nick’s heads bent in debate over what the Institute would really be like, suggestions varying from the reasonable to the wildly inconceivable. MacCready had his own ideas, a vast cavernous chain of labs that was not unlike the lab of Rivet City, which was the most high-tech place he could imagine. It was probably cleaner in the Institute. Or dirtier. They were underground, weren’t they? Sat on the ground, no longer watching the others, isolating himself in his own anxious thoughts. Alone, and trying to answer questions that none of them could.

“You doing alright there?”

MacCready looked up at Deacon, hadn’t even noticed him approaching, too lost in thoughts of freshly-made synths climbing up out of the dirt like animated vegetables.

“Yeah,” he said.

“You look a little lost,” Deacon said. “You want some help getting home?”

“I think I’m fine right here,” MacCready said, humorously scolding.

Deacon leant back against the wall of the house alongside him.

“I don’t know what to do now,” MacCready confessed. “I signed up to be a stranger’s hired gun and now I’m… here.”

“Life’s a funny thing,” Deacon said. “So what are you going to do? Pack up and head back to Goodneighbour?”

“Hell no. I was thinking about helping out the Minutemen. Preston always needs help.”

“True, true,” Deacon said.

In the week since they had been back, he had been spending what was maybe an inordinate amount of time with MacCready. In no way had this been a preplanned decision. Most of the Sole Survivor’s friends and accomplices were crammed into the tiny farm, along with as many Railroad members as they could spare, so he was not short of company. When they had been walking back, something in him had gone soft, and he had admitted, with the resignation of someone who knows they were wrong all along, that MacCready was not the bad guy. The acceptance that he was not the two-bit villain of Deacon’s one-man show had bled into a newfound epiphany, and Deacon was forced to realise that actually, he liked MacCready. Liked him a lot, found him easy company even with the added layer of guilt that had come with knowing he had mistreated somebody. MacCready laughed at his jokes, had a biting sarcasm that he found hilarious, and was, more than anything, just desperate for someone who understood, which Deacon did. Drifting towards each other had been natural, and he hadn’t felt the need to resist the growing urge to make friends. As much as he had resisted initially, it had become a comfortable reality.

MacCready tilted his head back, looking up at Deacon. Deacon realised he had been staring in a way that noticeable even with the sunglasses, and he forced himself to look away.

“What are you going to do?” MacCready said.

“What?” Deacon said, finding himself taken off-guard by the question. He wasn’t sure what MacCready meant, the tone of his voice more hopeful than inquisitive.

“While they’re in the Institute. What are you going to do? Got all the time to yourself now, no getting dragged off into the Glowing Sea or into Deathclaw nests.”

“Oh. Well, whatever the Railroad needs me too,” Deacon said. “There’s still work to be done. Time and tide wait for no man, or synth.”

MacCready just nodded, the answer unsurprising. Deacon was not his own man, after all, he was a Railroad agent above and before all else, and he would go where he was needed and do what was necessary.

“You think I’d ever be a good fit for the Railroad?” MacCready said.

“What, you want to join?”

“No, I’m asking what you think.”

“Would you risk your life for your fellow man? Even if that man is a synth?”

MacCready thought about it.

“Depends on who it is,” he said, honestly.

“No go,” Deacon said.

“That’s all it takes? Not passing that one question?”

“Yep. It’s gotta be a hard yes. ‘Depends’ is a bad as a no.”

“I can’t give a yes, I got other people in my life to think about. Not everyone means as much to me as Duncan.” MacCready shook his head. “No one does. I don’t think anyone ever will.”

Deacon looked around, casual as if he thought nothing unusual of MacCready’s statement at all. He spoke with a level pacing, measured his words, made it into the most mundane statement in the world.

“I guess the real difference between you and me,” he said, “is that I don’t have anyone like that anymore.”

MacCready looked up at him from his seat, sensing the invitation to pry where previously there had been nothing but a thick steel wall.

“What happened to Barbara?” He said.

* * *

They’d walked out of Mercer Safehouse to talk, away from the possibility of eavesdropping. They both knew the others were unlikely to pry into their private affairs, but it was more comfortable when it was just the two of them. They’d started their friendship walking down long roads on their own, and it felt easiest to have it carry on that way, strolling down the hill away from Tenpines and then down to the road below, wandering without purpose or direction. Something about the motion was comforting, the two of them shoulder to shoulder, the only bubble of humanity in their radius.

“So there was this kid,” Deacon said, “who I knew once. And he was a fucking idiot.”

MacCready snorted with laughter, but when he looked at Deacon, he realised that there was no humour in his face at all, no lightness to his words. He resolved to keep quiet.

“He ran with a gang. An anti-synth gang. Violent bigots, who went out of their way to harass and attack anyone they suspected of being a synth.” Deacon’s voice was low, and MacCready could tell talking about this was not easy for him. “UP Deathclaws they called themselves. Real imaginative kids, came from University Point, of course. And they _hated_ synths. They all had their reasons for why, but really, it was just being able to fight someone and know that they could get away with it. That they could do whatever they liked, and not have to face any consequences. It escalated, and one day they found what they were sure was a real bona fide synth. And there was a lynching.”

MacCready said nothing, had nothing in this moment to contribute, had seen enough wasteland justice in his life to know that these things were not always fair, or sane, or in any way justified.

“And this guy I knew; he knew then that things had gone too far. So he left, just ran, left the whole lot of them behind. Sure, his brothers gave him crap for it, but he got away safe and clean. Moved on with his life, settled down, became just another farmer. Met someone special, they settled down. They wanted to have a family.”

“They didn’t.”

“She was a synth. He didn’t know, she didn’t know. His old gang? They _did_ know. I don’t know how they found out, but they did, and they killed her.”

He was holding Deacon’s hand now, had been for a little while, had slipped it inside Deacon's in some search for comfort. Didn’t know if it was helping, but it was the only thing he felt he could do, and he had to do _something_. Deacon had pushed his fingers between MacCready’s, his rough palms pressed on the hard crests of knuckle, squeezing tightly, but not painfully so. They fit together well, slotting comfortably into place.

“They killed her, so I killed them,” Deacon said.

"And the Railroad?" MacCready said. "Where did they come in?"

They had drawn to a stop, standing in the middle of the road. Deacon was not looking him in the eye, but instead staring down at their joined hands. Their heads were tilted together, close enough for Deacon’s breath to be hot on MacCready’s face, bodies close enough to blot out the coldness of the empty world around them. MacCready's mouth was unexpectedly dry, a lump forming in his throat.

“I joined the Railroad under the false pretence of being a grieving husband,” Deacon said. “I’ve always been a liar, everyone knows that. Lying about who I am to try and do something decent… I don’t think it makes me a better person. It just makes me someone who is running away from himself. Pretending to be someone he’s not.”

MacCready’s own words sounded so harsh that he flinched, involuntarily, away from Deacon. But Deacon didn't let go and he ended up pushing himself back in, closer than before.

“And I treated you like shit,” Deacon said. “Because you were this _violent_ , remorseless _killer_ , willing to do anything for the caps. You’re so unapologetic about what you do, I wanted you to hate yourself as much as I do.”

“You thought that I didn’t?”

“I had this picture in my head, _Big Bad MacCready_ , the soulless gunslinger who murdered people for the money and abandoned his son out of spite. I had to believe you were a terrible person, because I needed to justify the hate. I couldn’t admit I was just a jealous, mean old bastard.”

“But you don’t hate me now,” MacCready said.

“I was trying pretty hard. But you had to go ahead and be a real person, and not a villain from some Old World Western.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s a lot better having… A friend, than a target.”

“I’d figured you meant kids, when you said you were jealous, but I didn’t realise…”

“It didn’t seem fair; you know? That we could have the same thing happen, but you could carry on being ‘the bad guy’, get the son, and I had nothing. Nothing but my stupid mistakes.”

“Maybe you can meet him. Duncan. Now that he’s better, I might bring him back to the Commonwealth. It looks like I’m staying here a while.”

“I’d like that.”

They both smiled then, like the earnestness of their conversation was embarrassing. MacCready could express himself aptly, when the situation called for it, but that didn’t stop it from being nerve-wracking to be honest with someone else. It didn’t stop it from being hard to see someone you cared about struggle to admit something that tore them apart and that you, really, could never do anything about. MacCready raised a hand, put it to Deacon’s face, brushing against his cheek so lightly as to barely do more than rasp against stubble. He wanted to touch more, but his nervousness was obvious to them both.

“Thank you for telling me,” MacCready said.

In Deacon’s mind’s eye, he could already see dangers lighting up radiation green. Having friends was already a dangerous commitment, that he had been avoiding for a long time. This was going somewhere else already, careening off into a new path, filled with endless complications. It would be easier, to avoid them all. He was doing a lot of things that were neither easy, nor safe these days, but he had to worry. Had to question, constantly, the risk of leaving the Railroad behind.

“Thank you for putting up with me,” Deacon said.

“I always liked you,” MacCready admitted. “It was worth waiting for you to catch up.”

Guilt had a long time been Deacon's driving force, and it was no different now. He felt heavy with shame, the knowledge that he had, once again, in the clumsy and impulsive way that only reminded him of the shadows of himself he had tried to leave behind, messed up. He liked being given the chance to atone, clinging to MacCready like he was Deacon's remorse made flesh.

“Must just be my ravishing good looks.”

“Something like that.”

MacCready moved his hand up, slipped Deacon’s shades off his face. Deacon blinked in the harsher light, eyes taking a second to adjust.

“Your eyes are so blue,” MacCready said. “I didn’t realise.”

“Just another one of my little secrets,” Deacon said. It was a stupid thing to say.

MacCready kissed him, because he wanted to, and this felt like the best possible time. To just take advantage of the moment, instead of letting it flit away from them and falling back into awkward silences. They were standing on the precipice of many new things, the potential of a whole new world, where there was a place for MacCready to be. And, MacCready had considered previously, where there might be no synths to save, but there was still a Deacon who had to live with himself. Where there might be no one hidden in the underground, filled with unawakened potential, for good or ill. Where the Railroad might not be needed forever, the Insitute might be gone, the threats in the sky and the ground may have vanished and left a void of power in their wake. It was not a world he wanted to go into without someone watching his back; it was a world where maybe, he was ready to embrace the fact there was someone else who _understood_. They kissed, hands still joined, tight enough now for MacCready to be able to feel Deacon's heart pounding. This was frightening, but it was good.

When they stopped, the need to breathe interrupting the moment, foreheads resting together, MacCready’s lips curled up into a smirk.

“Big Bad MacCready,” he said.

“You’re not very big,” Deacon said. “But you’re not very bad, either.”

“Average-sized, okay, MacCready doesn’t have that ring to it.”

“Small, pretty decent, Robert.”

Robert let the 'small' jab slide.

“No one calls me Robert.”

“I kinda like it, it’s so much more personable. _MacCready_ is the coworker you speak to once a week. _Robert_ is the charming guy you take on dates to abandoned hardware stores.”

Robert laughed.

“I can live with that,” he said.

“Good,” Deacon said. “You’re stuck with me now. If what I’ve told you ever gets out, I might just have to kill you.”

“You’re real fucking romantic, you know that?”

“Big, stupid, Deacon.”

“Nah,” Robert said, leaning in to lightly kiss the corner of his mouth. “ _Average,_ stupid Deacon.”


End file.
